


Yunnan Imperial

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha Mycroft Holmes, Alpha Sherlock Holmes, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Bonding, Canon Divergence - A Study in Pink, Cunnilingus, Duelling, F/F, Feels, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!mycroft, Female Alphas with Cocks, Femlock, Inspired by History & Tea, Omega John, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Spitroasting, Tea, Threesome - F/F/F, Vaginal Sex, genderbent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 05:14:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16190822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: One crisp autumn morning, two Alpha sisters decide to settle their differences with a duel, but they don't count on their worlds being turned upside-down by the Omega they meet at the ring.Omegaverse. Genderbent Alphas with Cocks. Poly. Sherlock/John/Mycroft. Smutty feels. Inspired by tea and a 1892 'emancipated duel.'For Kinktober 2018 - Day 4: Spitroasting





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the 1892 'empancipated duel' between Countess Anastasia Kielmannsegg and Princess Pauline von Metternich. Also inspired by [Yunnan Impérial tea](https://www.mariagefreres.com/UK/2-yunnan-imperial-cotton-muslin-tea-sachets-TB200.html) by Mariage Frères, which tastes, to me, like 'rapiers at dawn.'
> 
> Note: a masterlist of my 2018 Kinktober and Hallowe'en fics is on [DW](https://stonepicnicking-okapi.dreamwidth.org/2853.html).

John woke to an engine roar. She startled violently, and the wooden chair in which she’d been snoozing in a rather precarious state of imbalance, toppled over.

With much effort and swearing, she got onto her knees and used the overturned chair and her cane to push herself to standing.

She tried to peer out of the window, but her breath fogged the glass and she was forced to wipe it with the cuff of her jacket.

Finally, she was able to see the dark shiny Jeep take the country road with ease.

She checked her watch. She’d only been asleep for twenty minutes.

Damn Stamford. She’d said this would an easy gig. After all, who’d want to duel on a frosty Sunday morning in October? John certainly hadn’t expected anyone to show up at half seven in the morning!

But apparently someone, or rather someones, were quite keen on the idea because the Jeep was stopping.

John stomped her feet and rubbed her hands. She’d give anything for a cup of coffee or, even better, a cup of tea. But all she had was a bottle of water and an apple, and they had to last her all day.

John took a deep breath. Then she grabbed the clipboard and pen and pasted a smile on her face.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” she muttered. She said a quick prayer that her left hand would behave, then limped out of the shed.

“Good morning!” she called cheerfully.

Two figures emerged from the Jeep. They wore dark wool coats and dark heavy boots, costumes well-suited the dew-damp field and the crisp autumn air.

Each removed a long case from the vehicle.

They weren’t lost. They came prepared.

John studied their faces and saw the resemblance at once. Both were tall and lean with thin, hawk-like noses and determined chins. One’s raven dark hair was clipped very short; the other’s was long and, John suspected, quite unruly when it wasn’t in its current state, plaited in a severe braid.

One’s eyes were hazel and the other grey, but both fixed John with a sharp, scrutinising stare. Their expressions were of the same barely-contained wrath.

John sniffed.

Alphas.

Angry, unbonded Alphas.

Good Lord.

Like birds of prey, they swooped down upon John, but she was not flustered in the least.

“Fancy a duel?” she chirped.

“Who are you and where’s Stamford?”

Grey Eyes surveyed the field, the shed, the bucolic landscape and even John herself with open suspicion. John was struck with the sudden and irrational notion that the eyes were looking for a newly-dug grave or some other sign of Stamford’s untimely demise.

John almost laughed at herself. She really did read too many detective stories.

Hazel Eyes spoke with the weary tone of a nursery room governess. “Sherlock, as I mentioned _en route_ , Doctor Stamford is ill—"

“That’s right,” interrupted John. “I’m Watson, and I’ll be your Baroness Lubinska.” She cleared her throat in a manner that she hoped sounded authoritative, looked up at Hazel Eyes, and without further ado, launched into the requisite spiel.

Disclaimers over, she moved on to questions.

“So, what’s your name, Princess Metternich?”

“Mycroft Holmes.”

John nodded. Then she tucked her cane under one arm and, leaning against the shed, scribbled on the topmost sheet on the clipboard.

“And you, Countess Kielmannsegg?” she asked, glancing at Grey Eyes with a forced smile.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Relationship?”

They spoke at the same time.

“Sisters.”

Well, that explained a lot.

“Pronouns?” asked John.

“She/her,” they answered.

“Reason for duel?”

John briefly wondered what kind of Omega would be foolish to get themselves caught between these two.

“Floral arrangement.”

John’s eyebrows rose, but she dutifully recorded the answer. “That’s awfully authentic of you,” she remarked, “given that it was the reason for the original duel between the Princess and the Countess.”

“It was an inspired choice of conflict resolution,” said Mycroft Holmes with a tight smile.

Sherlock Holmes just scowled.

“You have your own rapiers,” observed John, ticking off some boxes on the sheet.

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Sherlock Holmes. “Please, let’s do get on with it!”

“You must excuse my sister, Doctor Watson. I would say she’s not always like this, but…”

Her gaze flitted for a moment past John to the interior of the shed, which held only a medical kit worthy of a field hospital, a wooden chair, and John’s humble lunch. “I’m sorry. Doctor Watson?”

John shivered but not from the cold. It’d been a while since anyone had called her ‘Doctor.’

It sounded nice.

“Yes, Ms. Holmes?”

“Would you care for a cup of tea before we begin?”

John couldn’t help the noise that escaped her lips.

“Oh, God, yes.”

“Wonderful. I’ll join you,” said Mycroft Holmes, setting her case on the ground and heading back towards the Jeep.

“Boring!” said Sherlock Holmes. She stomped off with her case toward the ring.

* * *

“Oh,” sighed John. She could feel the tea warming her from lips to her chest. Though she knew it was biologically impossible, she liked to imagine the tannins seeping into her entire circulatory system.

“Thank you. It’s wonderful,” she said. “So fragrant, and, you know, it even, well, sort of, smells and tastes like rapiers at dawn—.”

“Dawn was forty-nine minutes ago!” called Sherlock Holmes. “If anyone cares about punctuality!” She stood by herself in the centre of the ring, parrying and thrusting and dancing about.

“You’ve a romantic imagination, Doctor,” said Mycroft Holmes. The thermos flask rested on the Jeep’s bonnet between them. “It’s called Yunnan Imperial, a full-bodied black tea, Chinese, of course, with golden tips—”

Sherlock Holmes groaned loudly and rolled her eyes. Then her expression changed. “Oh, I’ve got it! Can I use your phone, Mycroft?”

“No,” said Mycroft Holmes coolly. “Use your own.”

“But I’ve no signal out here!” whined Sherlock Holmes.

John pulled her mobile from her pocket. “Here. Use mine.” She pressed her lips together as she gripped her cane.

Damn her leg. Not now.

“That’s very kind of you,” said Mycroft Holmes. “I’d give her mine, but she usually changes all my alerts to rude noises or prank calls the Prime Minister. Please, give it to me, and I’ll take it to her.”

When the mobile exchanged hands, Sherlock Holmes nodded in John’s direction.

“Thank you,” she said politely.

And just like that, John mused, the tantrum was over.

Sherlock Holmes tapped a quick message, then handed the mobile back to Mycroft.

Meanwhile, John quickly finished her tea.

Sherlock Holmes was right about one thing: they did need to be getting on with it.

“Of course, you needn’t keep the 1892 tradition of dueling topless,” said John, “especially as it being quite cool morning, but if you’re so inclined, rest assured, we’re the only souls for miles and I _am_ a doctor. Your choice.”

John waited as the Holmes sisters glared at each other, and until that moment, she wouldn’t have thought it possible to disrobe in a spiteful manner, but she was quickly proved wrong, as, without a word, the two began to strip to the waist.

Mycroft Holmes advised John that there were coat hangers in the Jeep, and John fetched them, swiftly slipping into the role of valet, accepting discarded items of clothing and neatly folding and hanging them.

It quickly became apparent that the Jeep itself was the best place to store the garments.

Really, it wouldn’t do to put a few thousand pounds of Saville Row in that dusty old shed.

With the waivers signed and the tits out, John supposed with a chuckle, there was nothing left but to bring the swords out. She shut the door of Jeep and then, with a cry of protest, hurriedly hobbled toward the ring, where the duel had already commenced without her.

* * *

It was the second round.

John wondered how many more it would take before one of them made a mistake, for she was quite certain that the Holmes sisters would not stop until then.

Each was a magnificent creature in her own right.

Mycroft Holmes was muscular, with breasts even smaller than John’s and a chest that was scarred: all of which did nothing to dampen John’s attraction and everything to pique her curiosity.

After all, she had scars of her own.

And Sherlock Holmes, well, she had a rack to die for. John would have been sorely tempted to ogle if she wasn’t gravely concerned that at least one of the pendulous beauties might be lopped off at any moment.

And thinking of graves, were the ghosts of a princess, a countess, and a baroness hovering about the ether, watching with amusement, or perhaps even a phantasmagorical sporting interest? John wouldn’t be surprised. It was the season for ghosts.

Thoughts such as these came and went, but mostly John kept her eyes fixed on the swords as they clashed and clanged. She tried to ignore the theatrics.

She also tried to ignore the thin sheen of perspiration that fast forming on the opponents—and herself.

John had already rid herself of her jacket, and she had just pushed up the sleeves of her thick jumper when Sherlock Holmes hesitated, her head turned toward John.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” she asked, apropos of absolutely nothing.

Confused, John blurted, “Afghanistan.”

Their eyes met, and Sherlock Holmes smiled a clever, wicked, beautiful smile.

And that was her mistake.

* * *

John pressed the bandage gently against the skin. “Just a flesh wound as those who’ve never actually had a flesh wound always say. By the way, how did you know? About Afghanistan, I mean.”

“She didn’t know, she saw,” said Mycroft Holmes, who was leaning, fully-dressed, against the frame of the door of the shed. “Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military, but you’re a doctor…”

* * *

“…never see a drunk’s without them.”

John stared, open-mouthed. “That was extraordinary!” she exclaimed when speech returned.

“Well, I _am_ the smart one,” said Mycroft Holmes with a cavalier bow of the head.

“That was more than smart. That was amazing. I’ve never heard anything like it,” insisted John.

“Oh, piss off, Mycroft!” growled Sherlock Holmes, then she turned to John, “Are you quite done now, Doctor?”

The sneer and the cold, harsh tone shook John out of her awed state. “Of course. Now, remember, if you develop a fever…”

But Sherlock Holmes was already gone.

“Thank you, Doctor,” said Mycroft Holmes.

“One last question,” said John. “Just out of curiosity. If you feel comfortable telling me. What’s with the floral arrangement?”

“Ah, that,” said Mycroft Holmes. “As winner of the duel, I get to select the flowers to be laid on our mother’s grave.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Ancient history,” said Mycroft Holmes with a dismissive wave of her hand. “But thank you. And Sherlock, as the loser, has the dubious honour of placing flowers on our father’s grave.” She gave John a look which John understood all too well.

John laughed aloud and thought she would have to be very careful or she might actually fall in love with Mycroft Holmes, but then the companionable silence was shattered by the obnoxious blast of the Jeep’s horn.

“Good day, Doctor. It was nice to meet you.”

“Good-bye.”

John watched the Jeep drive away thinking how pleased her therapist would be at the next session: she finally had something interesting for the blog.


	2. Chapter 2

The autumn sun had just passed its zenith when John’s thoughts finally turned from her morning with the dueling Holmes sisters to her apple.

Then she heard it.

Could it be?

Oh, God, it was.

The Jeep!

Had they decided to solve _all_ their squabbles with swords?

No, only one Holmes alit from the vehicle.

“Busy morning, Doctor?” called Mycroft Holmes.

“Not at all. I’m afraid yours has been the only hatchet buried today.”

“But ours never remains interred for long, more’s the pity. It’s a bit of a tiresome vampire in that way.”

“What brings you back, Ms. Holmes?”

“I’ve returned because I thought you might appreciate some lunch. This charming outpost didn’t seem to afford much in the way of amenities or conveniences, though I’ll admit it’s lousy with views. All you’re missing is the hay wain itself.”

Ministering angels come in all shapes and costumes. John’s stomach rumbled at the sight of several takeaway boxes being removed from the vehicle.

As Mycroft approached the shed, John saw she had exchanged her somber suit for a smartly-tailored country-squire brown tweed.

“Bit of everything. I wasn’t certain…”

God, it smelled good, and so did Mycroft Holmes. Life didn’t afford John many reminders that she was an Omega, but this was certainly one. Goodness, it was becoming a bit Mills & Boon, wasn’t it?

Cliché. Swoony.

“I can’t thank you enough. You’ll stay and share, Ms. Holmes. Please?”

John cringed at her pleading tone, but Mycroft Holmes only nodded and said,

“If you can see your way to calling me ‘Mycroft.’”

John grinned.

“I’m John.”

* * *

John studied the setting sun and decided to wait ten more minutes before calling for a ride back to the city.

She did not take Mycroft’s card out of her pocket again, but rather set about one more slow, painful lap ‘round the empty ring.

She stopped when she heard the engine.

It was not the Jeep, but rather a motorcycle approaching at very high speed and skidding to a dangerous halt just before her.

As the dust settled, a strong rebuke was on John’s lips, but it died a quick death when the removal of a helmet revealed a Medusa-worthy coiffure of raven black hair.

Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes.

“You’re a doctor. In fact, you’re an Army doctor.”

Really, John wondered, was there a family curse or something that no one could just say ‘hello’?

“Yes, Ms. Holmes.”

“Sherlock, please.”

“I’m John.”

“Hello, John.”

Finally!

“Are you any good, as a doctor, that is?” pressed Sherlock.

Ugh.

“ _Very_ good,” replied John, neglecting to add ‘smoke on your pipe and stick that in it, Alpha!’

“Seen a lot of injuries. Violence,” said Sherlock.

“Yes,” said John. What was she driving at?!

“A bit of trouble, too, I bet.”

“Of course, yes!” exclaimed John, losing her temper. “Enough for a lifetime! Far too much!”

Then Sherlock grinned that clever, wicked, beautiful grin and offered John the helmet.

“Wanna see some more?”

* * *

“Dinner?” asked Sherlock as they strode away from the crime scene.

“Starving,” replied John.

John’s lunch with Mycroft seemed like a past life, but what she wanted more than food was a minute’s peace to sit and think about everything that had happened. She wanted to think about Sherlock Holmes, who had turned out to be as extraordinary, as clever, as eccentric, as maddeningly interesting—and as delicious-Alpha-smelling—as Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock was less polished and less polite than her sister, but she was also a detective, a genuine private detective—and she was looking for a flatmate!

And the flat would do nicely.

Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes.

John wondered.

But Sherlock was still talking.

“End of Baker Street, there’s a good Chinese stays open ’til two. You can always tell…”

John caught a glimpse of a figure emerging from a car.

“Sherlock! It’s Mycroft!”

John’s first urge was to run towards Mycroft, showing off the absence of her cane, but that impulse died faster than a serial-killing cabbie.

This Mycroft was different. Her features were very hard, her expression icy. Her dark suit blended into the shadows and greys of the night and gave her an especially vulpine appearance.

Cruel. Menacing.

“She looks like a villain from a Bond film,” said John.

“Oh, no, nothing so glamourous. She’s more like a rash. If you ignore her, she just might go away on her own. Oh, no such luck.”

“Good evening, Doctor. You’re looking well. Sherlock.”

“What are you doing here, Mycroft?”

“I was concerned,” said Mycroft, pronouncing the final word very carefully.

“Thank you very much,” replied Sherlock quickly, “but we’ve got things to do. John’s tired. And hungry. And needs to wash her hands. Good-bye.”

Mycroft pretended to study the ground and said under her breath, “Powder burns or not, you have my word, there’ll be no court case, Doctor.”

John gave a nod but said nothing. She didn’t know what to make of this Mycroft. Nevertheless, standing between the two Alphas, she was also finding herself a bit drunk on pheromones.

Don’t swoon, she chided herself, that’d be terribly embarrassing after just shooting a man.

“Let’s get something to eat and go home, John,” said Sherlock. “Laterz.”

Mycroft stepped in front of them, blocking their path.

“So, in the last six hours, you two have decided to share a flat and solve crimes together. Might I expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?”

It was like a hard slap.

Mycroft’s face flushed as she caught John’s expression. Her features softened into something like sheepishness. Her lips parted.

“John, I’m…”

John wanted none of it. She whispered, “Piss off, Mycroft” and staggered away.

Sherlock caught up with her.

“John…”

“What does she really do?” asked John. “She told me at lunch that she occupied a minor position in the British government.”

Sherlock laughed. “She _is_ the British government, when she’s not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis.” Then she added, offhandedly, “I hope she doesn’t start a war before we get home. It does horrible things for the traffic.”

“Can we get a takeaway?” mumbled John. “I’m tired.”

“Of course.”

* * *

Sherlock had gone to bed.

John had planned to kip on the sofa of 221B and collect her things whenever she woke, but as tired as she was, she wasn’t sleeping.

She was thinking.

Her mobile buzzed.

**A thousand apologies. MH**

What was it about four o’clock in the morning that made everything so dramatic?

She was quite certain that in the morning the urge to have the whole thing out, consequences be damned, would have seemed preposterous. Nevertheless, she threw caution to the bloody wind.

**Can I talk to you? Now? JW**

**A car will pick you up in 5 minutes. MH**

John crept with boots in hand down the stairs, not realising until much later, that her mobile had been left behind.


	3. Chapter 3

“Thank you, again, for the tea,” said John.

Mycroft smiled. “So, what’s on your mind? Quite a lot, I imagine. You’ve had an interesting day. I must thank you, by the way, for what you did for Sherlock tonight.”

“You’re welcome.” John set the cup down in its saucer and rubbed her eyes. Now that the moment had arrived, she didn’t know how to start, but she knew she had to start with Mycroft. She took a deep breath.

“Earlier tonight, Sherlock said…”

_BEEP-beep-beep-BEEP!_

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” growled Mycroft, rising from the chair and striding over to the hook where her suit jacket hung. She fished her mobile out of a pocket and explained, “I wouldn’t answer it, indeed, an alert wouldn’t even sound if it wasn’t about Sherlock.” She’s glanced at her mobile. “She’s been spotted.”

“Spotted?” echoed John.

“Walking across London.”

“Why?”

“Probably because none of the cabs would take her with a rapier drawn.”

John gasped and remembered Sargent Donovan’s warning: _one day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there_.

“Where in the world is she going?” she asked,

Mycroft threw her a look of gentle condescension.

“Oh, John. Haven’t you guessed?”

John followed Mycroft out of the kitchen and watched with horror as she removed a sword from the wall of the sitting room.

There was a beep at the front door, then a roar.

_“Where is she?!”_

“Sherlock!” called John. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“If you really think you’re going to brandish a weapon in my home, Sherlock, without incident, you have proved yourself, once and for all, not the smart one.”

And that’s when John witnessed a second Holmes duel of the day.

“STOP! STOP! OH, YOU BLOODY IMBECILES! AARGH!”

* * *

They gently pressed the bandages to John’s skin.

“So bloody reckless! You could’ve sliced her bonding gland in half,” hissed Mycroft. “Or broken her clavicle.”

“That sword is so old, she’ll probably die of septicemia tonight!” returned Sherlock.

“I suppose it’s only fitting,” said John weakly as she crossed her arms over her chest. “You were topless this morning, and here I am returning the favour.”

John really didn’t want to have the conversation now. She was so bloody tired. Her head was swimming, and she was in real danger of tippling into the sentimental tripe known as ‘typical Omega.’ How had things got so bloody awful so fast?

“I’m sorry.”

John didn’t know which one spoke. Maybe they both did. All she knew is that it wasn’t her, but she took a deep breath, accepted her vest and some help in putting it back on, and began,

“Mycroft, earlier tonight Sherlock said that relationships weren’t her area. That she considered herself ‘married to her work.’ I just wanted to know, well, if that’s how you are, too.”

Mycroft stared. Her face was impassive, but her eyes danced from John to Sherlock and back.

John turned her head and was shocked by what she saw.

_Sherlock Holmes was scared._

Negotiating her own life with a serial killer hadn’t scared her, but whatever Mycroft was about to say did.

“Yes.”

John got to her feet and walked a couple of paces away from them. Her back was to them when she spoke.

“That’s what I feared. You’re both like that. You’re so extraordinary, so amazing, so interesting, and you smell so incredible, I hoped, maybe, you were open to something. I mean, I am an Omega, but it never mattered much until today. But if you’re married to your work, if relationships aren’t your areas, well, that’s that. No use wanting things or people to be the way they aren’t. I’m sorry. I was having sleep-deprived fantasy of bonding at sunrise and copious amounts of fantastic sex. It’ll pass. I’m not usually like this. I’m babbling. Sorry again.”

John took another deep breath and turned, bracing herself for the uncomfortable stares.

They were looking at her, but then they looked at each other.

“We’re puzzled,” said Mycroft.

“Novel sensation, I expect.” John found her jumper and, with more than a little discomfort, slipped it back over her head by herself.

“To whom are you referring?” asked Mycroft. “It seemed like it was me…”

“Then you’re weren’t even listening properly,” snapped Sherlock. “She said ‘interesting.’ It was obviously _me_.  If she'd said 'tiresome,' of course, it would definitely be you.”

“She said ‘extraordinary,’ which gives a clear indication,” countered Mycroft, “it _was_ , in fact, about _me_ …”

“I WAS TALKING ABOUT BOTH OF YOU! I WANT BOTH OF YOU!”

Two sets of eyebrows rose. Two expressions went from querulous to pole-axed.

“Maybe it’s because I have two bonding glands,” confessed John.

They frowned.

“I know,” acknowledged John, with a smile. “Freakish, eh?”

“I believe it would be a bit pot-and-kettle of either of us to suggest that,” said Mycroft after a moment’s silence.

“Where?” asked Sherlock pointedly. “Where’s the other gland?”

“There the conventional one on the left.” With some discomfort, John waved at the ridge between her neck and left shoulder. “And an unconventional one on the right.” She indicated the opposite side of her neck. “I know they’re both intact, well, as of twenty minutes ago because after I was shot, I was in hospital and had a million tests run on everything.”

“See?” said Sherlock testily. “You could’ve sliced her gland in half, too! Really, so reckless!”  

“Shut up!” barked Mycroft, then she turned to John and began, “My dear, if I may call you ‘my dear’…”

“I know, I know, but when I was a girl, the doctors said the right gland would atrophy and disappear, but it never did. Sometimes I thought my Alpha would just bite me twice. But then I grew up and met Alphas and found I didn’t want any part of them, but today, well, today’s the first day I thought there was a point to having two. I like you both so much and am so unbelievably drawn to you both. Anyway, I still want to live at 221B and accompany you on cases...”

“Of course!” said Sherlock. “But John…”

“…and maybe we can be friends and have posh tea once in a while, Mycroft.” John shrugged. “And then, of course, there’s the dueling.”

“There is not going to be anymore dueling,” said Mycroft firmly.

“Well, we can’t really promise that, can we? I mean, it may seem like a good idea,” said Sherlock. “But about the other, John…”

“Yes, about the other, John…”

They looked at each other.

“I don’t know,” said Mycroft.

“I don’t either,” said Sherlock.

“Fair enough,” said John. She was so very tired. She wondered if she could even make it back to 221B.

“Stay,” said Mycroft. “There’s a guest room. I think rest would benefit all of us...”

“Speak for yourself, Mycroft. My body’s just transport…”

But Sherlock’s protest was belied by a loud yawn.

“Lead the way,” said John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut's up next, fyi.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the spitroasting!

John slept the sleep of the dead, stirring only once to the sound of snoring. She cracked one eye and saw Sherlock curled up at her feet and Mycroft dozing in a comfortable-looking armchair beside the bed. She fell back asleep at once.

* * *

John woke for the second time to the disorientation of one who has slept many hours in unfamiliar surroundings.

The bed was exceedingly comfortable. John had stripped down to vest and pants before tumbling between the sheets, and she now indulged in a luxurious stretch, appreciating the pleasure of skin brushing expensive linen.

There was a knock on the door.

“May we come in?” asked Mycroft.

Not waiting for a reply, Sherlock pushed open the door.

“Finally! You’re awake.”

The Holmes sister were dressed in new clothes, and John had the vague impression they’d been out somewhere.

She pushed herself to sitting. “What have you been doing?”

“We visited a florist and a cemetery,” said Mycroft. “Two graves.”

“Together?”

Sherlock grinned and nodded. “First time since…”

“…the graves were freshly dug,” finished Mycroft, rocking back on her heels with undisguised satisfaction.

“Well done!” exclaimed John, beaming proudly.

“Indeed. We’ve been discussing the situation, John,” continued Mycroft, with a quick glance at Sherlock, “and are somewhat buoyed by the success of this admittedly small task. We’ve a proposal: what say you to a trial period of, say, a fortnight? To see if such an arrangement would suit all parties?”

“You mean, to see if you two can share me without resorting to bayonets?”

“And to see if you can stand two sets of very singular bother,” added Sherlock with a twitch of her lips.

“Yes!’” cried John.

“Told you so,” said Sherlock, glancing at Mycroft.

“Well, that’s all right, then,” said Mycroft, ignoring Sherlock.

No one said a thing until Mycroft cleared her throat.

“Well, John, I think we’d better leave you to…”

“No,” said John.

She knew where she wanted to be. She also knew this might be her only opportunity.

“No?” they repeated with raised eyebrows.

John crawled out of the sheets. She sat back on her heels with her knees splayed, letting the scent of aroused Omega hit them directly. She lowered her chin and lifted her eyes and gave them both a look that, she hoped, required no interpretation.

She watched awareness change their features.

“If you’re not keen, leave,” she said. “But if you’d like to try sharing…”

“What would you have us do?” asked Mycroft softly.

“Open your trousers.”

* * *

John had to give it to them: they were quick.

She leaned forward on her arms and wiggled out of her pants. Then she caught Mycroft’s eye and nodded. Mycroft stepped to the side.

John shifted so that her head was towards Mycroft. Then she looked over her shoulder and made a funny face at Sherlock. And in case there was any confusion, she lifted her arse and wiggled it.

Sherlock laughed.

Very soon, John was licking one Alpha prickhead while another teased the folds of her cunt. And then she was sucking one shaft while another sank into her. And then she was being gloriously fucked.

“John…”

“John…”

John swallowed and sat back on her heels, ignoring the trickle down her thighs.

She looked from one Alpha to the other.

“So, how was that?”

“Exceedingly pleasurable,” said Mycroft. “And I am experiencing no sororicidal impulses.”

“Sherlock?”

“Good. Same, about not killing Mycroft, that is,” said Sherlock. Her eyes wandered over John’s torso. “Uh, John, we are, or at least, I have no wish to be selfish in this respect. I am amenable to—”

Mycroft huffed. “I am also _amenable_ —!”

“Not now,” said John. “I get rather cock-hungry after I sleep a lot, and I wanted to see if you could manage it. And you did!”

“It’s a veritable season of miracles,” remarked Mycroft dryly as she set herself to rights.

Sherlock turned away and did the same. “You’ll move your things, John?”

“Yes,” said John. “As soon as I get cleaned up, that’s the plan.” She bounced off the bed and began searching for her clothes.

“Um, John?” asked Mycroft.

“Yes?”

“Regarding the nature of the agreement, for the next two weeks, shall uh, _private_ assignations of a romantic and possibly carnal nature be entertained as well as, uh, _communal_ ones?”

John stared blankly, then the penny dropped. “Uh, let’s put it to a vote. All in favour?”

Three voices rang out.

“AYE!”

“The ayes have it,” said John with a cackle. “Now where are my pants?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock smut!

John had so few belongings that moving and settling in was the work of a couple of hours. Her first night in her new home passed uneventfully, but the first morning brought a case that lasted three days and nights and included ciphers, circus acrobats, antiquities smugglers, a kidnapping (hers), a rescue (also hers with Sherlock’s belated arrival on the scene) and a cheque for services rendered that made John’s eyes pop out of her head.

“Is this how it always is?” she mused as the cab wound its way back to Baker Street.

“There are unsolved ones and less remunerative ones,” said Sherlock. “But, often, yes. Tired?”

“Not at all.”

John wasn’t tired. She was high.

She was delirious with their success, the danger and adventure, the whole spectacle of Sherlock being clever and she, well, if not brave, then a close facsimile of it.

John paid the cabbie and bounded up the stairs after Sherlock—and straight into Sherlock’s arms.

And then there was the kissing, lips locked as Sherlock walked them towards the wall. Then John felt the full length of Sherlock pressing against her body.

The Alpha’s lust was undisguised.  

“John?”

Sherlock’s lips wandered, kissing along John’s jaw towards her earlobe.

John wove her fingers in Sherlock’s hair and began massaging Sherlock’s scalp with the pads of her fingers.

“John?”

“If ever there was a creature that wanted petting, it’s you, Sherlock. May I smell your hair?”

Sherlock’s voice was a low, gravely vibration, but she spoke impatiently. “John, you may do anything and everything you desire with me, including smelling my hair.”

John bundled a coil of Sherlock’s hair and brought it to her nose. She inhaled and groaned,

“I’m drunk on the scent of you.”

“Well, that makes two of us, but John?”

“Hmm?”

John was rubbing her face in Sherlock’s hair, a movement which admittedly served as a hindrance to Sherlock’s kissing.

“Have you plans for the evening, John?”

John chuckled and rolled her head to the side, providing means and opportunity for Sherlock to devour the left side of her neck. “No,” she replied, pausing only in her petting to rub Sherlock’s temples and the nape of her neck.

“I wish to make a thorough study of your erogenous zones.”

John laughed. “Well, that makes two of us.”

* * *

They stumbled down the hall to Sherlock’s bedroom, leaving a trail of discarded clothing and shoes behind them.

“My preliminary conclusion is you like every kind of kissing, John.”

John surfaced from a half-swoon. Her lips were swollen, and her body ached. “Every kind but your best impression of an 8-year-old Komodo dragon eating its birthday mice.”

“Noted.”

The clinical tone made John open her eyes wide and push up onto her elbows.

“Do you have a spreadsheet, Sherlock?”

Sherlock grinned. “Only in my mind.”

“Of course.” John fell back onto the bed. “And you, Sherlock, what kind of kissing do you like?”

John frowned. She honestly couldn’t remember what Sherlock had liked, and that was A Bit Not Good.

“Your kind, naturally. Now, ears?”

Sherlock crawled toward John with tilted head. She brushed her lips to John’s earlobe.

“No, thank you,” said John.

She shrank away, but Sherlock chased her, nosing about John’s left-side bonding spot and dropping her voice to a purr.

“But neck, I think….”

“Oh, yeah,” growled John and surrendered.    

“This spot, right here, seems to be...but then this one as well…”

Sherlock had made a thorough inventory of John’s neck, leaving only one strip of skin on the right side untouched, un-kissed, un-bit, un-licked.

“Oh, God, Sherlock. Give me something to rut against now.”

A pillow was quickly shoved between John’s legs while Sherlock’s mouth worried a delicious spot on John’s neck and Sherlock’s hands cupped John’s breasts and…

“Sherlock,” moaned John and tilted her head back. “Kiss me.”

As soon as their lips met, John’s pleasure burst. Her lips trembled, then she bit frantically at Sherlock’s mouth.

“That’s the kissing I like best, John,” said Sherlock as John twisted, curling into Sherlock, throwing her arms ‘round Sherlock’s neck.

“Are you going to fuck me, Sherlock?”

“Often. But first…”

She eased John on her back on the bed.

“Sherlock…”

John curled onto her side.

“What’s wrong?”

Sherlock leaned up and licked at John’s shoulder.

“I’m not like you.”

“Not a reason for complaint, from me or the world at large, I imagine.”

She was nuzzling John’s shoulder now.

“You’re gorgeous, Sherlock. Round where you should be round and flat where you should be flat. I’m sort of the other way about. Can we skip to the fucking?”

“Yes, but know that I want all of you, John. Well, almost all.” Sherlock placed her hand under John’s knee and lifted it.

And slid her cock right in.

Sherlock fucked John into the mattress, and afterwards, John flopped onto her back without compunction.

Sherlock crawled on hands and knees over her.

“Now I know I’ve satisfied you,” whispered John.

“You satisfy me by existing,” said Sherlock. “But if it soothes your, very natural, Omega anxieties, well, it’s not a bad way to begin.”

Sherlock slowly dragged a tongue over John’s nipple, then looked up, cautiously.

John’s knees fall open, and the scent of their coupling wafted up from between her legs.

Sherlock groaned. Then she cupped John’s breasts, squeezing them gently and bending to suckle and bit at the nipples. Then she rolled John on her side and took her again, with a heavy hand laid across her stomach.

“I want to touch you, too, Sherlock.”

John turned and buried her face in Sherlock’s neck.

“It will require some adjustment.”

John pulled back. “What?”

“No one’s ever wanted to touch me.”

“Sherlock…”

Sherlock suddenly looked shy. “Please, forgive the drivel, do go on.”

“You know, it’s only because no one’s ever seen you swordfight topless.”

Sherlock laughed.

“Yes?” asked John eagerly.

Sherlock snorted and rolled onto her back.

“I’m yours.”

“God, you’ve got a gorgeous rack.”

“So you’ve said.”

“Forgive the chorus.”

“Not at all. But, John…”

“You’re hard again.”

“Painfully so.”

“Let me see to that. I’ll sit down right here.”

“John!”

“Face-to-face is nice, yeah?”

“Quite. But it’s more dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

“The urge to bite.” She hastened to add. “I won’t, John, I promise. But…”

“You’re keen to?”

Sherlock nodded, then gave a soft cry.

In a few moments, she was lifting John off her.

“A kiss?”

“Of course,” said John.

Sherlock dropped her head.

“Oh.” John considered. “Very gentle. And I may not like it.”

“Understood.”

John slid to the side, as if falling out of a saddle.

Sherlock followed, the lower half of her face wet. “So you _do_ like it.”

“Apparently,” moaned John. “Hold me down and fuck me rough?”

“If you hold me down and fuck me gentle.”

“Yes!”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poly smut & Johncroft smut and a fluffy end.

The front door creaked.

John sprang from Mycroft’s lap, and by the time Sherlock reached the top of the stairs, she was scrubbing something unnecessarily in the kitchen.

“Mycroft.”

“Sherlock.”

“Welcome back from…that country you were in. Just returned, I see.”

“Yes, I wanted to say ‘hello’ to John.”

“Hello, Sherlock,” said John. “How’s the lab?”

“Morgue. Liver!” Sherlock held up a plastic bag triumphantly.

“Oh, God!” exclaimed John. “On the left side,” she pleaded as Sherlock opened the refrigerator.

“I know, I know,” said Sherlock. “But, uh, you two needn’t have stopped on my account. Let me wash this bile right out of my hair and I might even join you.” Sherlock smirked at John’s open mouth and added “Really, John.”

* * *

John’s mouth was full of Mycroft’s cock when she felt Sherlock’s prick. With a few thrusts, they found a rhythm, and John could not have been more content when the two Alphas actually started to make small talk as they fucked her.

“New suit,” said Sherlock. “Flattering.”

“Thank you. Well done on the case, by the way.”

“Thank you. It was a good one, and Sebastian Wilkes is five-figures poorer.”

“ _Very_ well done. He was always a prat, and Miss Yao will make a full recovery, I understand.”

“Yes, but not General Chan. John was invaluable, by the way.”

“Of course, she was. Oh.” John felt hands on her head and her hips. “If it wasn’t for her, you’d have kept that hair pin, just out of spite, and now it goes back where it belongs.”

“I suspect that the business…in the country you were in…would’ve taken three weeks instead of three days to resolve.”

“I did have an incentive to wrap things up expediently. This.”

“Yes. Fuck!”

When they flooded her, John could no longer hold back the tears.

* * *

“All right now, my dear?” Mycroft dabbed John’s face with a handkerchief.

John made a noise that was something like ‘sorry.’

“Completely understandable reaction. It’s all a bit overwhelming for everyone, but, of course, it shows up in different ways. Um, on an entirely different point, I was wondering if you’d do the honour of joining me this evening for dinner and a film, alone, that is, and at my domicile? I have a home theatre, which, unfortunately, you did have the opportunity to view on your last visit.”

John opened her eyes and turned her head towards Mycroft’s face.

“Are you honestly asking me out on a date while your sister’s eating me out?”

Mycroft’s face reddened. “You know, when you put the request in context, it does sound rather…”

John was in Mycroft’s lap, her back to Mycroft’s chest, while Sherlock’s head was buried between her legs.

“Yes,” said John, her eyelid drooping. “I don’t think I’ve plans.”

She bent her head and cast a half-lidded glance at Sherlock.

“Liver,” murmured Sherlock against John’s thigh.

“It’s astounding that this is actually happening,” said John. “And you’re not jealous…”

“Jealous, no, but I am envious,” said Mycroft softly. “I can tell by the way that Sherlock is suckling your clit…”

The words seemed to be pouring into John’s ear, driving her mad.

“God, yes.”

“…tonguing you…”

“Fuck.”

“…putting her mouth to most tender, most intimate of parts…”

“Yes, yes.”

“…that she has had at least a certain amount of time to hone her skill. Perhaps, in a post-case euphoria, you fucked all night?”

John only whimpered.

“And you let her pleasure you?”

John nodded. “I was…” She crossed her arms over her bare chest, but Mycroft drew her hands away and began gently fondling her breasts. “…but then…”

“What?” whispered Mycroft. Then she licked at John’s right-side bonding spot.

“Then…I sat on her face ‘til I was sore.”

Mycroft cupped John’s cheek and kissed her lips.

“You see? I am quite envious of Sherlock’s knowledge as well as the extended circumstances in which it must have been acquired. And at this precise moment, she’s coaxing a climax from your body onto her lips. What’s not to envy?”

That was the last John heard for a while.

* * *

John studied the titles. “You like old films.”

Mycroft hummed.

“I think this one.”

“Good choice. Dinner first?”

“Are you hungry?”

“Not especially.”

They stared at each other for a moment, then Mycroft neared John and curled her arms around John’s waist. They kissed, then kissed again.

“Mycroft, could we start with dessert?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

* * *

“Oh, God,” exclaimed John as she sank down, impaling herself on Mycroft’s prick.

Mycroft chuckled. “For six days, I’ve been summarily distracted by the thought of this.” She licked at the slope of John’s breast. “As good as imagined, my dear.” She rocked her hips upward, and John groaned.

“When I saw you today, Mycroft, I almost embarrassed myself…”

“You weren’t alone in that urge, my dear…”

“This will fade to something more manageable, yes?”

“I certainly hope so, for the sake of national security, if nothing else. Fuck, my dear, I’d very much…”

“God, anything.”

The sofa proved too narrow, so Mycroft laid John upon the rug and took her roughly.

“It’s a bit ridiculous, no?” said Mycroft, loosening her tie. “Me, like this. And you…”

“No,” said John. “I think it’s understandable. I was…” But she let her voice die, uncertain of etiquette.

“Nervous with Sherlock?” prompted Mycroft.

John nodded. “She’s beautiful.”

“Yes.”

“And I’m not exactly…”

“Neither am I.”

“I thought that when I first saw you. That sounds horrid, but what I mean is I thought, ‘She’s got scars, too. Maybe she would…’”

“Understand? Yes, it occurred to me as well. After I read your file. Apologies for that, by the way. Grievous breach of privacy.” Mycroft removed her tie and tossed it aside. “Your scent, John.”

“Yeah, you want to fuck me again?”

“Yes, then take you upstairs.”

“In your bed?”

“In my shower, on my chair, on my floor, anywhere our fancies suggest. Fuck you, feed you, entertain you, and otherwise keep you wholly satisfied until dawn.”

“Sound great, except for the fact I’m going to be rather raw.”

“Don’t worry. I promise I’ll kiss it and make it better,” she laced her fingers in John’s, “if you show me how.”

* * *

John reached an arm out. Nothing.

She sat up.

“Mycroft?”

“She’s gone to work.”

Sherlock was folded comfortably in a chair, reading from her mobile.

John drew the sheet up to cover her breasts. “What are you doing here, Sherlock?”

“Mycroft was called away unexpectedly. She thought that you might be distressed at waking up alone after your first night together.”

“But why didn’t she just…?”

“She said it would be crass.”

John stared, then blinked. “So, you’re the human equivalent of a note pinned to a pillow?”

Sherlock snorted. “Yes. My sister has very peculiar ideas about some things”

“Well, thank God you’re above all that. How’s the liver?”

“Still bilious, thanks for asking.”

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“This is going to work, isn’t it?”

“Yup.”

* * *

Mycroft had insisted on the tea. John had insisted on the place and time. And Sherlock had insisted on the swords.

“This is mad,” said Mycroft.

“Yes,” Sherlock and John agreed.

They finished their tea just as the sun rose.

“All right, here we go.”

The third Holmes duel John witnessed was just as heated as the first, not from anger, but rather from anticipation.

After two rounds, Sherlock and Mycroft lowered their swords and looked at John, who was curled up, nude, in a blanket in the doorway of the shed. She was wet and wanting and beyond ready for them when they swooped down upon her, Sherlock on the left, Mycroft on the right.

John pressed her lips together as they sank their teeth into her skin.

And she thought she could still taste the tea.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
